


Intervention (5-7-5, like a haiku)

by marcicat



Category: Burn Notice, Covert Affairs, Leverage, Psych, White Collar, X-Men
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcicat/pseuds/marcicat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barrett’s death sends shockwaves through the shadowy corners of society. Michael’s friends recruit some help and stage an intervention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intervention (5-7-5, like a haiku)

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out with three ideas. First, Burn Notice has been really frustrating this season. Second, I’m really sick of the music box storyline on White Collar. And third, I watched one episode of Covert Affairs and was convinced that the most compelling plot wasn’t the one on screen. But since I didn’t have the time or inclination to write a bunch of different fics before NaNoWriMo, I just combined them all into one. The other fandoms are just there for the free food.

PROLOGUE

_"Neal, it's Mozzie."_

_"It's 3:17 am, Moz."_

_"This can't wait. Someone down in Miami just took out Barrett."_

_"..."_

_"Neal? Neal!"_

_"Yeah, I'm here. Shit. Was it Westen?"_

_"Don't know. Nobody's talking; they're too busy running. This is bad, Neal."_

_"I know. You out?"_

_"You're my last call. I'll see you when I see you."_

_"Wouldn't miss it. Be careful, Moz."_

******************

_"Peter, it's Neal."_

_"Neal?"_

_"You remember when I said I let you catch me? I wasn't kidding."_  

_"Are you drunk?"_

_"What? No. Look, I can't explain over the phone. Can you come over? It's important."_

_"Okay. Okay, right. I'm on my way."_

******************

_"Peter?"_

_"El, are you all right?"_

_"Of course I am. Peter, it's after midnight. Are you all right?"_  

 _"Something's got Neal spooked. I just called the office, and every department has chatter going through the roof. I want you to go to the emergency plan."_  

 _"Are you sure, honey? Never mind, of course you are."_  

 _"I love you, El."_  

 _"I know, I love you too. Don't worry about me. Watch out for Neal, okay?"_  

_"I always do."_

******************

 

PETER BURKE

"Neal, what the hell is going on?" 

Neal looked suspiciously alert for -- Peter checked his watch -- 4:00 in the morning. He was also still in his pajamas, which Peter was hoping meant the situation wasn't completely dire. If Neal was planning on running, he wouldn't call first, right? 

Neal sat down at the table and fiddled with a pencil. "Did you call the office?" he asked. 

Peter sat across from him, interrogation style. "Of course. Chatter's up; nothing else." 

"Does the name John Barrett mean anything to you?" 

"No; should it?" 

"It doesn't matter now," Neal said, meeting his eyes for the first time. "He's dead." 

At Peter's shocked expression, he added, "In Miami.  I had nothing to do with it." 

Peter wasn't awake enough to deal with this, whatever it was. "Explain," he said. 

Neal sighed and grabbed a sheet of paper. "It's like this." He drew three circles, stacked on top of each other like a snowman. "This is how you see the world. Up here is you --" He pointed to the top circle. "FBI, police officers, government -- the good guys, right? In the middle are civilians, and down here are the criminals." 

"You mean you," Peter interjected. 

"Sure," Neal said easily. "But over here," he said, drawing a long oval to the left of all the circles. "Over here is where the real problems are. These are your ex-spies, your black ops handlers, non-governmental power players. People like John Barrett. He's got -- he had -- his fingers in all these circles. Government, criminal, always willing to make a move on civilians if someone didn't fall into line." 

Half of Peter's brain was insanely relieved he'd already called Elizabeth. The other half cut off the sentence at insane, and Neal still hadn't answered his question. "You're telling me you buy into Mozzie's shadow government conspiracy theories now?" 

"No," Neal said. "Believe me, I'd be thrilled if it was as poorly organized as our government. This is more like Fight Club, except the invitations come with a gun to the head." He circled Barrett's oval a few times for emphasis. "The good news is that people over here spend most of their time fighting with each other. The bad news is that they get their resources from over here. Weapons, official pardons, leverage. People." 

Peter rubbed his temples. Because yeah, it wasn't like the Bureau was blind to stuff like that. But it was all internationalized; jurisdiction was a nightmare. There was no effective policing of crime on that level. It didn't take long to figure out you could throw your career away chasing shadows, or let it be and focus on putting catchable criminals behind bars. 

He sighed. Of course Neal would be up to his neck in this. "Where do you come in?" he asked. 

"They recruit the best," Neal said, with a hint of his usual cocky grin. "About six years ago, a man came to me. He said he had a job offer. And then he said I could take the offer, or I could say no and he'd kill us -- first me, then Kate, then anyone else they could find who'd ever associated with me." 

"And?" 

"And I picked option C. Thank you, by the way. Not everyone has their very own FBI agent just waiting to whisk them off to a maximum security prison." 

Peter's head was reeling. "You went to prison on purpose. But you escaped." 

Neal shrugged. "Not until they were about to let me go. Besides, a tracking anklet is probably the only thing safer than the super max. I don't even have to sleep with one eye open, because you're always watching." 

Things were slotting into place in his mind -- the technicality he'd arrested Neal on the first time; Neal never posting bail; the Dutchman case; Neal moving in with June, the way they kept taking off his tracker and he kept coming back for more. "Where does Barrett fit into this?"

"Barrett was a big player. Telecom giant by day, financier of private armies by night. Never too busy for a little bribery and intimidation during lunch breaks. He's not the kind of guy who dies by accident." 

"Someone killed him. Who?" 

"No one's talking." 

Neal was hiding something, or protecting someone. Peter had been watching him for long enough to recognize the signs. "Speculate." 

"Could be an inside job -- sort of a DIY promotion. Could be someone killed him to send a message, to stop him from talking. It's not like he didn't have enemies." Neal ran a hand through his hair. Outside, the city noises were just starting to shift from late night to early morning. 

"So he was a scumbag, and now he's dead," Peter summarized. 

"A known scumbag," Neal corrected. "Barrett held a public position; he had a wife, a family. Anyone who had anything on him is scrambling right now. I guarantee you arrests will spike in the next two weeks." 

Peter was still trying to wrap his head around the idea that people might be getting arrested on purpose. "As people... what? Flee to the safety of the criminal justice system? That's ridiculous, Neal." 

"Hey man, don't knock it till you've tried it." Neal must have seen his expression, because he shook his head, suddenly all business. "I'm serious, Peter. These kind of people, they get their hooks in you and your life isn't your own anymore. They threaten your friends, your family -- at least in prison you're still you." 

Peter disagreed, but he wasn't prepared to debate the issue. "Are you in danger?" he asked instead. 

"No." Neal hesitated. "not anymore than anyone else." 

Which wasn't exactly the same thing, he couldn't help noticing. "But?" Peter prompted. 

"Barrett was a big name. Killing him was... crazy. Suicidal, probably. Everyone's going to want a piece of what he had -- it's like throwing chum in a shark tank." 

"That is by far the most disturbing analogy I've ever heard you use." It hit him, suddenly, what Neal was working around to saying. "You think this will draw Fowler out," he said. 

"If anything's going to get him out of whatever hole he's hidden himself in, this is it. You've called Elizabeth?" 

Peter nodded. "She's safe." 

"Think Hughes will clear us to go to DC?" 

"Why DC?" 

"Biggest shark tank in the world. Plus, that's where Mozzie's headed." 

Peter's disbelief must have shown on his face, because Neal smiled. "He does have friends other than me, you know. This sort of thing is one of his specialties." 

Since Peter tried to know as little as possible about Mozzie's specialties, he didn't ask what "this sort of thing" actually entailed. "I'll call Hughes in the morning."

 

CARLTON LASSITER 

"Let's try this one more time. Why are you here?" 

"I'm remanding myself into your custody," the woman said patiently. 

Carlton closed his eyes and prayed for a distraction. O'Hara, the Chief, some sort of small explosion somewhere in the station -- because it was tragic that he apparently had nothing better to do than sit and listen to a crazy person. His computer pinged him to announce that Shawn Spencer had checked in at the front desk, and he amended the thought. Another crazy person. 

"Look," he said. "Miss --?" "Burke," the woman said. "Elizabeth Burke. And it's Mrs, actually." 

Of course it was. "Mrs. Burke, the process of the remand is used only under very specific conditions, and never into the custody of a single officer. Have you even committed a crime?" 

There was a pause. "I plead the fifth," she said finally. Carlton sighed. 

"Why don't you start from the beginning." 

"My name is Elizabeth Burke. That's Burke with an 'e,' if that makes it easier to look me up," she said, with a hint of a smile. "My husband works for the FBI. Last night he called me just after midnight and said something had happened. He told me to find you and stay close until we could meet up." 

From the way her eyes slid sideways on that last sentence, Carlton would bet that wasn't exactly what she'd been told. Then again, she might just be tired. Night shift said she'd been at the station since before two. "Why me?" he asked. 

"He said you're the best." Carlton hated that everyone seemed to think that appealing to his ego was the quickest way to get to him. He hated even more that it so often worked.

"Lassi!"  Shawn bounded over to his desk -- his distraction, about five minutes too late, but wasn't that always the way?  "I can't believe it's noon and you've already met a beautiful woman.  I was going to give this second delicious pineapple smoothie to you, but this changes everything!"  

Mrs. Burke took the offered smoothie with a smile and a questioning look in his direction.  He waved a hand at it in a 'no, you take it' sort of way, and said, "It's nowhere near noon, Shawn."  

Shawn waved his hand in a much more complex 'what do I care about the rules of time' sort of way.  "I'm refusing to acknowledge any of the hours between four am and noon right now.  Since my Hello Kitty alarm clock says it's after four am, but not yet time for an afternoon nap, it therefore must be noon.  I'm Shawn Spencer, by the way," he said, shaking hands with Mrs. Burke.  "Head psychic for the SBPD."  

"Elizabeth Burke," she replied.  "Are you really psychic?"  

"No," Carlton said firmly, at the same time Shawn said, "Yes, of course."  

She looked back and forth between them.  "Peter did say you have unique resources."  

"Hear that, Lassi?  I'm unique.  And also psychic."  He struck up his classic 'psychic reading' pose, one hand at his temple, and Carlton rolled his eyes.  "You, Elizabeth Burke, are happily married to an FBI agent.  You're worried about him.  He's back home, but you've been staying out here for weeks.  And your hotel burned down last night."  

Carlton blinked.  He'd been following up until the last part -- most of if Shawn could have gotten just by reading his notes upside down, and from the luggage that looked well-used but not well-traveled.  But the hotel?  From her expression, Mrs. Burke hadn't known that either.  

"What?" she said.  

"Detective Lassiter!"  McNabb rushed to his desk and held out a sheaf of papers.  Predictably, it was news about a hotel fire -- no injuries, arson investigation pending.  Mrs. Burke looked pale.  Shawn wasn't even paying attention, focused on his phone (for once) as Carlton flipped through the report.

Suddenly, Shawn stuffed the phone into his pocket.  "Well, this has been great, but I've got to go.  Nice to meet you, Elizabeth!"  

"Spencer, where are you going?"  It seemed like just the kind of case he'd try to horn in on.   Possible arson in a five-star hotel, FBI agent's wife potentially in danger? 

"Home of the Redskins and the shortest life expectancy in the country," Shawn said, then added, "Washington DC," almost as an afterthought.  

Carlton waved the folder at him, and Shawn raised an eyebrow.  "Why, Lassi, I didn't know you cared.  I guess that's as close as you'll come to asking for my help."  

He looked at Mrs. Burke and frowned.  "It was arson, but the desk clerk didn't want anyone to get hurt.  He pulled the alarm before he lit the fire.  Someone paid him to do it; he probably only spoke with them on the reception desk phone."  

He turned his gaze back to Carlton.  "Sorry, did you want me to do the hand thing?"  He put his fingers at his temple and pointed the other hand at Mrs. Burke.  "She's in danger."

And then, in a move that had to take the top prize for 'weirdest things he'd ever seen Shawn Spencer do,' Shawn shook Mrs. Burke's hand solemnly.  "Stick close to Lassiter, here -- he's the best.  If Peter doesn't call, you should go after him."

Then he grinned, all manic energy again.  "I put in for my vacation time weeks ago, Lassi.  Looks like I really am psychic this time."

 

FIONA GLENANNE

"I cannot believe we're lugging an unconscious, injured man through an airport."  

It was, possibly, not one of their better ideas.  And yet -- they couldn't just leave him there.

"Come on, Fi, we couldn't just leave him there.  Who knows what kind of trouble Mike could get up to in a hospital?"

"He was there for a reason!"

Bullet wounds, they could handle.  Car crashes, they could handle.  Explosions, they could also handle  -- most of the time, at least.  Combining all three?  Well, that was a little beyond Fiona and Sam's medical capabilities.  Luckily, Michael had a hard head.

"He'll perk right up once we get him through security."

Fiona really wished Sam would stop saying that.  Of course, she also wished Michael would stop leaking blood all over her shoulder, and that hadn't happened yet either.  "Yes, and remind me again why we're going towards the most secure airport in the country."

Sam hefted Michael's weight with a grunt.  "Because it's the last place they'll think to look for us.  Trust me on this, no one in their right minds is going to look for us on this flight."

"Hey guys."

Later, Fiona would swear she hadn't jumped, but anyone watching would have been able to testify that she really, really had.

"Jesse?" she hissed.  "What are you doing here?"

"How did you find us?" Sam asked.  "And are you planning on killing us?"

"No, I changed my mind about that," Jesse said calmly.  By unspoken agreement, they made their way to a row of chairs off of the main walkway.  "As for how I found you -- you're not exactly hiding."

"We were going more for the 'hide in plain sight' strategy," Sam said.

Fiona frowned at him.  "What changed your mind?"  Who cared how he had found them; it was done, he was there.  

Jesse paused, then said, "Short story?  You were right."

She smiled.  She had no idea what he was talking about, but "you were right" was always nice to hear.  "Thank you," she said.

"Right, so what's the long story?"

Jesse scratched the back of his neck in a gesture that was disturbingly Michael-like.  "I knew a guy, once, he had this hunting dog.  And that dog would do anything this guy asked, no matter what.  But he was dumb as a box of rocks, and deaf in one ear.  So he spent a lot of time chasing after things that this guy didn't ask him to get, just because the dog thought maybe that's what he was supposed to do."

Fiona raised an eyebrow.  "I don't get it," Sam said finally.  "Who's the dog in this metaphor?"

Jesse tried again.  "Look, you guys have a good thing going here," he said awkwardly.  "I like you.  I trust you more than just about anyone else, at this point.  I know enough about Barrett to know that there's going to be a boatload of fallout from this, and I'd rather have you at my back than in my crosshairs."

She looked at Sam, who was looking at her.  He shrugged.  "Welcome back, Jesse," she said, holding out her hand.

"Yeah, that's good enough for me," Sam said.  "But you're taking Michael; I cannot believe how heavy he is."

"It's all those yogurts, man."  Jesse slipped into the seat Sam vacated.  "Dairy's very high calorie."

 

ANNIE WALKER

John Barrett was dead.  This was exactly the kind of opening they'd been waiting for.  The CIA would be jockeying with the other agencies for days, trying to sort out jurisdiction and arrests, fighting over informants.  Sure, on paper they were all supposed to cooperate, but on paper the CIA wasn't recruiting by force, either.

"Do you ever think about it?"  She knew it was a stupid question as soon as she opened her mouth.  Of course he did; they all thought about it.  It was all she'd thought about for months.  It was what had gotten her through training, what still got her through the nights when sleeping wasn't an option.

Auggie tilted his head in his classic 'I heard what you said but have no idea what you're talking about, and also I was doing six other things at the same time' expression.  "Annie, what exactly are you worried about?"

She gave a rueful laugh.  "I don't even know, that's the worst part.  It's never been the three of us, you know?  It was you and Ben, and then me and Ben, and then you and me, but never all of us together at the same time."

He put down his glass and shifted in his seat.  "Yeah, I think about it," he said quietly.  "It's going to be weird, no lie.  Half my toys are CIA-issue, and it's not like I can check them out of the office like library books.  But Annie -- it's the right thing to do.  I don't ever doubt that."

Annie picked up her drink to cover a sweep of the bar.  "Heads up," she said.  "Company at ten o'clock."

The newcomer sat down without invitation between them at the small table, carrying a drink in each hand.  The downside to meeting in a bar during Beer Week, of course, was that it was just as easy for your enemies to sneak around as it was your friends.  And she couldn't shoot the guy, because he might legitimately be a drunk reveler.  

"I think you have the wrong table," she said.

The guy took a drink out of one glass, then the other.  "Live a little!" he said loudly.  "To Beer Week!"  He raised one of the glasses and got a decent response from the bar's patrons, considering it was still early afternoon.  Much more quietly, he added.  "Auggie Anderson?  Annie Walker?  Pretty sure I've got the right table.  I'm Alec Hardison; I'm here to help."

"I'm really sure you have the wrong table," Annie repeated firmly.

Auggie held out a hand.  "No, wait," he said.  "Alec Hardison.  You work for Nate Ford?"

"We prefer to think of it as working with Nate, but yeah."  Hardison pulled two business cards out of an inside pocket and handed them over.  "Leverage Consulting."

Auggie whistled.  "Braille; nice touch."

Something was tickling the back of Annie's mind.  Something about that name  -- Leverage Consulting.  "Parker," she said.  "You work with her?  Short, blond, fast with explosives, good at picking locks?"  She'd only met the woman once, but she left a strong impression.

"Crazy as a loon?  That's our Parker all right.  Not surprised you've met, really.  Both of you have certainly pulled your share of crazy-ass stunts."

"So you did your homework.  How do we rate a visit from the infamous 'Leverage Consulting' team?"

Hardison looked awkward for a good three seconds, and Auggie pressed the advantage.  "The truth," he said.  "Or as close to it as you can come."

It wasn't meant to be insulting, although Hardison did look a little affronted.  But they both knew truth was a fluid concept.  "Nate wants to get out of town and lay low," Hardison said.  "This Barrett thing isn't good for business.  But Eliot wants to stay for Beer Week, and Parker wants to do that feet in the street thing, god knows why.  Eliot told me to find a case.  Besides, your plan sucks."  

"What?"  

"Come on, what were you going for?  Hack and burn?  No file left behind?  Let me guess, you have a nifty computer virus all ready to go that's going to make all your problems disappear."

If she and Auggie could have exchanged worried glances, they would have.  As it was, she couldn't resist shooting a concerned look in his direction, and he tapped his fingers on the table in an annoyed cadence.  "Mr. Hardison," she said, ready to roll with whatever came out of her mouth.

He held up a hand.  "Just Hardison is fine.  It's not a terrible plan, okay?  But it's not the kind of plan you need us for, which makes it suck.  Nate's not going to agree to hang around just so we can help you three drop off the grid."

And really, where was he getting his information?  Because it was getting a little scary, and usually when she got scared, people started getting dead, or at least injured.  Possibly just imprisoned for a while, if she was in a good mood.  

"And?" Auggie prompted.  "Not that we're agreeing in any way to anything you might have said.  But purely as a hypothetical exercise, your alternative plan would be...?"

"You know what would be really useful?" Hardison asked.  "Having some CIA agents on our side to bail our asses out of jail on the -- very few, but still pretty damn alarming when they occur -- occasions when we all end up on the wrong side of the law at the same time.  There's a limit to the number of phones we can realistically expect even Parker to swallow."

Annie really didn't want to understand that sentence.  Her subconscious ignored her wishes and began pondering the idea of swallowing a cell phone.  How would you even -- no, she didn't want to know.  She wasn't thinking about it.

"We don't want to help you quit the CIA," Hardison said.  "But we'll totally help you trick them into thinking that where you want to be is also where they want you to be."

The tapping stopped.  "How?"

"Age of the geek, baby.  Give me a few hours with their computer systems, and your merry band is suddenly assigned deep cover, top secret, eyes only work.  You keep your badge, your gun, and your security clearance, but all of a sudden the only people with the clearance to check up on you don't even know you exist."

It sounded -- good.  Great, actually.  Except -- "We don't have badges," she said.  "It's sort of a thing."

Auggie laughed.  Hardison just looked bemused.  "Right," he said, with the air of someone who was used to people having conversations he didn't care about understanding.  "So, are we on?  Because Eliot's going to need at least an hour to sober up, and Parker's still picking which shoes to wear to the street thing."

"I'm pretty sure the whole idea is to go barefoot," Auggie said.

"Yeah, it's a Parker thing," Hardison assured him.  "Logic doesn't really apply."

 

FIONA GLENANNE

“Didn’t you guys bring any luggage?"  Jesse sounded disbelieving.  

"Sure," Sam said.  "I've got my phone, and my wallet.  I told you, it was a spur of the moment kind of plan."

Jesse's expression said all that needed to be said about his opinion of their "plan."  Fiona lowered her sunglasses to stare across the parking lot.  They would need a car, preferably one where Michael could lie down in the back.  Tinted windows would be a plus; an alarm system would be a delay.  "Besides, none of the other things I would have brought are allowed on planes anymore.  It would be a shame for your government to confiscate any of the guns I've so carefully stolen."

She spotted a likely target.  "That one," she said, pointing.

And of course, it couldn't just be easy.  No, this was Michael Westen they were talking about.  They'd barely made it to the car when he startled into consciousness.  "Fi?"  

"Quiet, everything's fine," Jesse said absently, like they hadn't been threatening to kill each other less than a week ago.  He was crouching down, checking the underside of the vehicle.  She saw him edge away from Michael as he said it, though -- obviously he wasn't quite as complacent as he wanted them to think.  Good.

"Jesse?"  Michael hissed in pain as he tried to turn his head too quickly.

"I'd stay down, Mikey."  Sam hurried back around the corner.  "We've got this covered."

It was amazing how he could be ninety percent unconscious and absolutely still a candidate for the emergency room, and still manage to inject a level of sarcasm and judgement into his tone.  "With Jesse?"

"Yes, Michael, with Jesse.  And Sam, and me."  Fiona pulled her attention away from the locked car and glared at Michael.  "Because you decided to get yourself very nearly killed, and right now you don't get a vote.  So stay in the wheelchair, try to look like a wounded war veteran, and let us steal this car for you."

She was pretty sure Michael muttered, "I am a war veteran," but he didn't try to climb out of his wheelchair and strangle Jesse with his bare hands (or throw himself in front of a passing car, like that would actually make any of their lives easier), so she was willing to let it go.

A new voice broke into the tense silence.  "Well, well, well.  Fancy meeting you here.  Ms. Glenanne."  

Fiona sighed.  "Agent Burke," she replied.  

"Hang on, you two know each other?" Sam asked.  

Burke gave a 'the floor's all yours' gesture.  "We've met," she said.  

"She stole a shipment of guns I was babysitting for Homeland Security," Burke said.  

"Allegedly," Fiona corrected.  "And Homeland Security had just confiscated them from a Jordanian smuggling ship, so it's not like they were really yours to begin with."  

"Right," Burke said dryly.  "Somehow my superiors didn't quite see it that way.  I thought you'd left the States."  His tone said he'd been happier when he thought she'd been far, far away.  

"I came back," she said, unable to keep her eyes from flicking to Michael.

"I see that.  What brings you to DC?"  He sounded suspicious.  Then again, if memory served, he always sounded that way.  

"Just visiting," she said brightly.  A cherry red convertible pulled up beside them, and Burke's attention was instantly diverted.  "Neal, that is not the car I rented."  

"No?"  The man who was driving -- who looked nothing like a federal agent -- maintained the innocent act for all of three seconds before he relented.  "Peter, the car you rented was so boring, I was worried I'd actually expire of apathy if I was forced to ride in it.  Besides, this was a free upgrade.  No worries."  

Burke didn't look like someone with no worries.  He pinched the bridge of his nose, and she realized the man in the car must be Neal Caffrey.  She'd kept the barest of tabs on Burke after their run-in, and anyone who knew anything about him said that Neal Caffrey was his achilles heel.  She hadn't realized they'd teamed up, and she wondered suddenly if she'd been too quick to dismiss Burke.  Which side of the law was he working on?  What was he doing in DC?  "Neal, did you lie to rental agency?"  

Caffrey grinned.  "Nope!  Well... not really."  He held his hand up, thumb and finger indicating that if there had been a lie, it was tiny, minuscule even.  Hardly worth mentioning.  Fiona liked him already.  

Rather than elaborate on his (really, very small) untruth, Caffrey turned to her.  "Car trouble?" he asked.  He tossed the keys to Burke and sauntered over to where she was standing.  "Don't forget to adjust the mirrors," Neal called over his shoulders.  "I know how you hate to have to fix them when you're on the road." 

More quietly, he said, "I'm Neal Caffrey.  You need any help stealing this car?"  

She looked at him.  Narrowed her eyes.  "Cover for me," she said.  "Thirty seconds."  

"No problem," he said.  Leaning casually on the car, and conveniently blocking her hands from view, he called to Burke again.  "I adjusted the seat, too."  She could tell he was taking stock of their group -- battered, but still pretty obviously giving off an "armed and dangerous" vibe.  "Westen," he said politely.  

Michael said nothing, but he'd produced a gun from god knows where and his aim was steady where he was holding it out of sight of Agent Burke.  

"I take it you've met?" Sam asked.  

"You could say that," Caffrey replied.  "Was it you who took out Barrett?"

The tension ratcheted up several notches, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she finally got the door unlocked.  "Who wants to know?" she said.  

Caffrey held up his hands.  "Purely professional curiosity."  No one answered, and he grinned.  "Not sure what you'd be doing in DC after that, but if you need any help..."  

Jesse snorted, and Sam looked torn between being impressed at Caffrey's audacity and pissed at his obvious association with the Feds.  "You know what they say about curiosity," Jesse told him, and Caffrey laughed.  

"I've heard it once or twice," he said.  "I'll see you around."  He twirled his hat on his way back to Burke, who was glaring at them in that generally disapproving way that Feds looked at anyone they thought was a criminal but couldn't actually pin any crimes on.  

Sam muttered, "Not if we see you first."  

Fiona just waved at Burke and made a mental note to switch cars at the first possible opportunity.  There was no way he hadn't gotten down the license plate number in that amount of time.  

 

ELIZABETH BURKE

Peter called.  He and Neal -- and Mozzie, apparently, she wasn't too clear on that part -- were in Washington DC.  They were looking for Fowler.  Neal was looking for Fowler, at least.  Peter was convinced that Fowler didn't have the resources to send someone after Elizabeth all the way in California -- he was looking for the next fish up the food chain, whoever that might be.  

The whole thing seemed alarmingly cloak and dagger to her, and she was used to the FBI's methods.  So she'd said, "We're going to Washington DC," in her firmest voice, and Detective Lassiter had been more agreeable than she'd expected.  

She thought he probably just wanted to find out what Shawn Spencer was doing there.  Which was fine by her -- Shawn sort of reminded her of Neal, and she couldn't help wondering what it would be like if they ever met.  

"Peter's not answering his phone," she said.  

"Shawn's not picking up either," Carlton said, frustration clear in his voice.  "Hang on, let me call Henry."  He punched in the numbers with more force than was really necessary.  "Henry has Shawn's phone on a GPS tracker," he explained.  "He's his father," he added, like that made the situation any less bizarre.  Really, the similarities to Peter and Neal were... well, they were something.

She listened with half an ear while Carlton explained to Henry that they were looking for Shawn, and could he trace Shawn's phone for them, and that no, he was fairly certain Shawn wasn't in Santa Barbara bowling with Gus, because he'd told them he was going to Washington DC and also he hated bowling.  She could actually hear the ranting on the other end of the line when Carlton said that yes, in fact, he and Mrs. Burke were also in Washington DC, and it was possible they were there to catch a criminal, or maybe solve an arson, or something else entirely, and --  Carlton had cut himself off at that point, and just waited out the ensuing commentary.  

Finally, he snapped the phone closed.  "Shawn's at the National Mall.  He's moving, so that's a good sign."  

"Or his phone is moving," Elizabeth pointed out, and Carlton glared at her.  

"Let's go," he said.  She rolled her eyes behind his back as he strode purposefully towards the nearest exit.  It was a beautiful day, and she didn't have any way of finding Peter (or Neal, unless she wanted to try coaxing the location of his anklet out of one of Peter's team, and she tried not to do things like that except as a last resort).  Following Detective Lassiter to a possible psychic seemed like a good enough plan for the moment.

They found him at a food cart, rifling through his pockets.  He didn't look surprised to see them.  "Lassiter!" he said happily.  She wondered if the use of Carlton's full name meant he was only interested in pulling his pigtails when the rest of the office could see him.  Since Shawn followed it up with, "Can I borrow five dollars?  I gave the kids my wallet," it was entirely possible he'd just been buttering him up for the money question.

Carlton handed over the money without hesitation.  "I'm taking this out of your next paycheck," he said.  "You know that, right?"  

Shawn just smiled.  "You'll have to hire me first, which is pretty much like admitting you need my help to solve crimes.  You know that, right?"

"Where are they?"  Carlton was scanning the area suspiciously, presumably looking for whatever kids Shawn had been talking about.  He looked like he expected them to leap out of thin air at any second.  "It's those XI kids again, isn't it?"

Shawn handed her a bag of roasted nuts, and she realized she hadn't eaten anything all day except coffee and danishes at the airport.  

"Thank you," she said.  

"Thank Lassiter," Shawn told her.  Turning back to Carlton, he added, "Yeah, they're around here somewhere.  Pretty sure, anyway."  

"Aren't you supposed to be watching them?"  

Elizabeth wasn't sure who they were talking about, but she glanced around for children who looked like they were supposed to be being supervised anyway.  

"Paige told me I didn't want to know about what they were going to try next," Shawn said with a shrug.  "So I don't.  They know how to find me if they need help.  Besides, Scott probably has half a dozen teachers here with them.  I'm just a guest lecturer enjoying the sights."  

"Probably?"  

Shawn sighed.  "There are seven, not including me.  Two in the air in a cloaked ship, two back at the hotel, three on the ground.  Although one of those is watching me, so I don't know how helpful he's being."  

Elizabeth licked salt off her fingers and realized what she was looking at.  "That's weird," she said.  

"What?" Carlton asked, looking around like he could intuit what she was talking about.  

"Four people just went into that museum," she said.  "And then three more a minute later.  But the sign says it's closed for renovations."  

"Maybe they were construction workers," Carlton suggested.  She gave him a look that informed in no uncertain terms that she was perfectly capable of recognizing what a construction worker, or even regular employee, should look like, and the people she'd seen most definitely weren't that.  

"Or not," he allowed.  "Spencer, tell me your kids aren't doing something illegal in the Arts and Industries Museum."

"Technically, I don't know what they're doing in the Arts and Industries Museum."  

That didn't seem to reassure Carlton in any way.  "I wish they'd let me bring my gun," he growled.  The only way he'd been able to get time off so quickly was to actually take time off -- which meant he was acting as a civilian, and the National Mall frowned on civilians running around with guns, whether they had a permit or not.

"These weren't kids," Elizabeth said.  "They were grownups."  She was pleased when neither of them asked if she was sure.  "What are we going to do?"  

"Well, the logical thing to do would be to call for help, but since we're not sure who or what might be causing us to need help, it would be like Doc Brown and the train tracks all over again."  

Elizabeth blinked.  "Did you just make a 'Back to the Future 3' reference?"  Shawn looked ready to launch into what would probably be an even more convoluted explanation, but Carlton cleared his throat pointedly.  

"Time is of the essence," he said.  Shawn narrowed his eyes. 

"It would be awkward to call for police backup if it turned out that the people you're looking for were doing something that could get them arrested."  

"There, was that so hard?"  

"Yes, it was.  And boring.  I'm not a cop, Lassi.  Stop trying to stifle my natural flair and dynamism.  Dynamic-ness?  Dynamite-osity?"  Carlton just grunted, and she guessed it was a familiar argument between them.

"So we're just going to walk in after them and hope for the best, is what you're saying."  

"Essentially, yes," Shawn said.  "Although if we get attacked by aliens and transported to their ship, don't worry -- my dad has a GPS tracker in my phone."  He looked sideways at Carlton, and added, "I assume that's how you found me."  

Carlton had the grace to look embarrassed.  "Yes," he said.  "Although if you would just answer your phone..."  

"Shh," she told them.  "Act like you belong here."  She wasn't sure what she was expecting -- for someone to set off a hue and cry at their entrance, she supposed.  Alarms, maybe, or some sort of SWAT unit descending from the ceiling.  

None of that happened.  They walked into the museum without even a security check, since it was supposed to be closed.  The door was unlocked, courtesy of someone before them.  "It could be a trap," Carlton said, eyeing the main hall suspiciously.  

"For us?" Shawn asked disbelievingly.  "Come on, let's split up.  I'll be Jamie, and Elizabeth can be Claudia.  Lassi, that makes you Mrs. Basil E whatever her name was."  

She didn't get the reference at all, and exchanged a blank look with Carlton.  Shawn sighed.  "It was a stretch, I know.  Ben Stiller and Amy Adams just seemed too obvious.  Plus, then Lassiter would have been Robin Williams, and that's just -- no."

They split up.  She took the opportunity to use the bathroom, because who knew when she might get another chance? 

It turned out to not be such a good idea after all, when she heard a voice say, "Don't move."  There was no ominous click of a gun safety being released, and she hoped that was a good sign.  

"Now turn around.  Slowly," the voice said.  She did, putting her back to the sink and holding her hands out to her sides.  Not a good sign after all, she realized -- the other woman had a knife, not a gun.

"Hello," she said.  Looking on the bright side, she probably wasn't about to be arrested.  It seemed unlikely that museum security guards would be armed with knives.  "I'm Elizabeth Burke."

"You're just going to start right off with a name?" the woman asked.  "Doesn't that negate the point of sneaking around?"

"I'm not really sneaking around," Elizabeth said, even though she sort of was.  "I'm looking for my husband."  She weighed the odds of having "he's with the FBI" turn the conversation in her favor, and decided not to mention it.  "Have you seen him?"

"No," the woman said shortly.

There was a pause.  Then the woman said, "I'm Parker."

Elizabeth nodded a greeting.  Shaking hands was probably out of the question.  "Wait," Parker said suddenly.  "Is he here?"

"I'm not sure."  She didn't think Peter would have any reason to be in a closed Smithsonian museum, with or without Neal's influence, but then again, she wouldn't have expected herself to be there either.

"Let's go," Parker said, gesturing somewhat absently with the knife.  

It didn't seem like a good idea to antagonize anyone holding a knife.  Then again, she'd certainly been to enough self-defense classes to know that if someone was threatening you, the secondary location was always worse.  It just wasn't clear to her if Parker actually was threatening her.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Scouting the perimeter," Parker said.  "You're coming with me.  Don't do anything stupid."

Right.  She could do that.  Elizabeth fell into step in front of her, and hoped she wasn't making a serious mistake.

 

ANNIE WALKER

She prowled through the offices in the basement level of the museum.  How could they kick her out?  Sure, she wasn't as good at the whole computer thing as Auggie, and she didn't think anyone was as good as Alec Hardison apparently was, but seriously.  She had not been making him nervous.  Not on purpose, anyway.  

They'd gotten in easily enough.  Her cover job of "working for the Smithsonian" was real enough for her to have an ID and and a set of security codes for the buildings.  Hardison only needed to be on the same network to work his magic; one government-run building was as good as the next.  And what better than an empty museum?  It seemed to suit Ford's flair for the dramatic.

Her earpiece buzzed at her, and she flipped it on.  "Yeah," she said.  "Annie here."  

It was Ford.  "Neither Parker or Eliot have checked in; I want you to go find them."

She bristled at his authoritative tone, and made a few choice hand gestures back in the direction of the room they were using as a headquarters.  Still, someone should find out why the others hadn't checked in.  "I'm on it," she said.  "Are they done yet?"

She was pretty sure that was Hardison's voice in the background, cursing, and tried not to worry.  "It's going well," Ford said.  "Let me know when you find something."

She headed for the upper levels.  It didn't take long to figure out the building wasn't nearly as deserted as it was supposed to be.  There shouldn't have been anyone in it at all, after they'd knocked out the security guards and left them locked in the break room.  But she could definitely hear voices echoing from somewhere.

"You really don't need to come with me," someone was saying.  "It will only take a few minutes, half an hour tops."

She couldn't hear whatever the response was, but the first voice said, "Well, I'm certainly not lugging him back here if he passes out again."

Annie crept closer to where she'd triangulated the voices.  There was one woman walking away, deeper into the museum.  Light was shining out under an office door, and she could see at least two shadows moving around.  "I've got unknowns in the building," she said softly, tapping her headset.  "Two plus in office 137, ground floor.  One on the move headed towards the main hall."

More cursing came through over the line, and she grinned.  It was like what everyone had to be thinking when agents called in to the CIA headquarters, but wasn't supposed to say out loud.  "I'm in pursuit," she said.

"No, you're not," a voice came from behind her.  It was the same woman she'd seen before -- damn, how had she circled around like that?  The museum wasn't set up to be able to do that.

"What are you doing here?" the woman asked.

"What are you doing here?" Annie countered.  She could always go with the "I work here" story, but she was pretty sure no one believed that, even her own sister, and her sister had never caught her sneaking around a closed museum with a headset and a handgun.

"I asked first."

She weighed her options, then said, "I'm Annie."  It wasn't her CIA tail, at least -- they wouldn't bother asking questions.  At this point, it would have been a taser and a cell, or a head shot if she was lucky.  "I'm looking for someone."  Sometimes the truth was as useful as a lie.

The other woman nodded.  "What a coincidence," she said, giving a little smile.  "I'm Fiona, and I'm looking for some _thing_.”  

It was about as vague as an answer could be.  "And your friends?" Annie asked.

"What friends?" Fiona asked innocently.  

Annie sighed.  "I don't suppose you're going to let me go," she said.

"Nope."

It was pretty clear from the earpiece and the conversation Fiona had interrupted that Annie wasn't alone.  "They'll come looking for me, you know."

Fiona said, "I'll be quick.  You can go as soon as I have what I'm looking for.  Scout's honor."

"Do they even have Scouts in Ireland?"

The look she got said Fiona had thought she was disguising her accent better than she actually was.  "No."

And really, there didn't seem to be anything else to say after that, but Annie wasn't good with long silences.  "I don't suppose you've seen anyone else while you've been here -- a man or a woman, both sort of dangerous-looking?"

"No," Fiona said again.

"Did you know there's someone following us?"  Annie figured it was even odds whether it was one of Fiona's friends or the still unaccounted-for Eliot or Parker.  Fiona whirled around.

"Whoa, don't shoot.  It's just us, Fi."  Three men, one of whom was clearly injured but doing a hell of a job standing on his own, came around the corner.  

"What are you doing?" Fiona asked.  "I told you I could handle this."

"Michael was worried," one of them said, pointing a finger at the injured guy.  He didn't look worried to Annie.  She'd met people like him before, though.  Worried, angry, happy -- they all tended to be superseded by a generalized stoic-ness.

"Who's your new friend?"

"Sam..." Fiona started.

Annie jumped in.  "I'm Annie Walker, I work -- used to work -- for the CIA."

"Nobody quits the CIA," Sam said suspiciously.

"I can't believe you didn't even take her gun," the other guy said added.

"Oh please, like she was really going to shoot me."  Fiona sounded dismissive, and Annie decided it would be best not to mention her very real contingency plan that involved doing just that.  "Besides, it was easier to watch the gun than whatever else she has hidden."

"Fi."

Annie was impressed by how quickly Fiona's attention leapt to the injured man.  "Michael, don't you dare say anything," she said.  "You know this is important to me."

They looked at each other for a long moment, which was apparently an acceptable way to carry out relationship discussions when neither of the two participants was blind.  Clearly that was why speaking looks never worked for her.

Everyone else seemed equally caught up in the silent drama, because they all jumped when Eliot walked around the corner.  To his credit, Eliot didn't look surprised at all.  "Hi," she said.

He frowned.  "I checked in; Nate said he'd sent you looking for me and then hadn't heard from you."

She frowned right back.  "Nate sent me because he hadn't heard from you.  What happened?"

"I ran into some kids."  Eliot shrugged, like it was no big deal.  "We just got talking."

And that was when the police showed up.

 

ELIZABETH BURKE

It was quite the coincidence, really, that Carlton and Shawn had come across the group at exactly the same moment as Peter and Neal, and that Carlton and Peter had started shouting about everybody putting their hands where they could see them.  Nobody had, of course, but the resulting ruckus had been enough to draw her and Parker to the scene.  The confusion had been -- well, she was sure they'd look back on it and laugh, someday, but at the moment it was just sort of embarrassing.

The real question was: why were they all still standing around in the hallway?  It was a museum, after all; there must be places people could sit down and talk like civilized human beings.  

Elizabeth weighed her options.  She could shout, or whistle -- she was pretty good at the two-fingered whistle.  The decision was taken out of her hands when one of the men in the middle of the group suddenly slumped sideways against the wall.  He slid down nearly a foot before someone grabbed him.  "Can we take this to an office?" the prop-er asked.  "Cafeteria?  Somewhere he can sit down?"

"What's wrong with him?" Parker asked suspiciously.

He looked like the kind of guy who would answer "I'm fine" no matter what, but his companions jumped in for him.  "He flipped a car," one of them said.  

"And he was shot," the one who was now supporting a significant portion of his weight added.

"No thanks to you."

"Hey, I'm here, aren't I?"

She edged closer to Peter, only to be intercepted by Neal.  "Fancy meeting you here," she said.  She didn't bother being quiet.  There were enough jumpy people around them with guns (and knives, and who knew what else) that anything that looked like secrecy would probably be taken badly.

"I feel like there's a line about classy women in unusual places that should go here," Neal replied.  "How are your feet?"

She wiggled her toes at him.  "I'm wearing my sensible shoes."

"That's my El," Peter murmured, coming up on her other side.  She realized they were bracketing her and couldn't find it in her to protest.    

"I love you," she replied, tucking her hand into his.  Neal looked a little left out, so she bumped shoulders with him.  "What are you two doing here?" she asked. 

"Us?" Peter said.  He gave the rest of the group a suspicious look.  "What are you doing here?"

"We got a tip Fowler was going to be at the museum," Neal offered.  

Elizabeth was ready to go into the whole story of her hotel burning down, and finding Detective Lassiter, and flying to Washington DC, and following the suspicious personages entering the museum, but Shawn interrupted with a loud, "That's probably not a good idea."  It cut through all the individual conversations that had been going on, and she looked at him in confusion.  Who was he talking to?

"Sorry," Shawn said, in a more normal tone.  He looked around at everyone.  "But he's with the police department and he's with the FBI, which means there's at least two people here probably shouldn't witness anything of questionable legality."  There was a pause.  "Not that I'm saying that anything like that is going on anywhere in the museum."  She thought the first sentence had sounded a lot more believable than the second.

From the conversation that followed, it sounded like they'd been talking about moving the whole shebang to a lower level office where there was some number of additional people, probably doing something illegal.  Either everyone involved had managed not to actually admit what it was yet, or she'd just missed it.

"It's out of my jurisdiction," Carlton said, unexpectedly.  

Everyone looked at Peter.  He looked conflicted for all of three seconds.  "I'll wait in the hall," he said.  Neal wisely stayed quiet, and Elizabeth patted his arm.  She hoped Peter wouldn't make a fuss when he realized she wasn't going to wait in the hall.

 

JUBILATION LEE

This was way more exciting than the Natural History Museum.  Plus, it wasn't even like their teachers could say it wasn't educational, because she was totally learning stuff.  Stuff like how to hack into the CIA database in twenty-seven easy steps, but it's not like that wasn't useful.  Even Everett was having fun.  

"The popcorn's gone," he said absently.  "Oh, and your phone's about to ring."  

Her phone rang as he finished talking.  She glared at him.  "That's really annoying, you know."  

He threw up his hands.  "It wasn't my idea.  'Hey Everett, let's break into the Museum of Arts and Industries.  Hey Everett, let's find the mystical artifact.  Hey Everett, touch it to find out what will happen!'  Sound familiar?"  

She shrugged.  It wasn't like they'd known the box would make him mildly precognitive.  It would probably wear off after a while anyway.  

"Sorry," she offered.  She checked the phone, but it was just the standard check-in reminder.

"Do you want me to get more snacks?" Paige asked.  

Jubilee was about to say 'yeah, obviously,' when a weird look flickered across Everett's face.  "What is it?" she said instead.  

"Someone's coming.  A bunch of people."  

The door opened before Mr. Ford could do more than stand up and look annoyed.  "You know, you'd think that talent would be useful for a little more warning," he said.  

The room seemed a lot smaller with -- she counted twice because they kept moving around -- eighteen people in it.  At least some of them were familiar faces.  Fifteen against three wasn't good odds if something went wrong, even with Everett extra-powered at the moment.  Shawn was there, though, which meant it would totally be fine.  

"Hi Shawn," Paige said brightly.  

He gave them a look.  "No," he said.  "I'm totally not saying this was my idea to keep you out of trouble with Scott."  

Paige's expression dimmed slightly, but she took it in stride.  Everett waved at one of the other new arrivals.  "Hi Eliot!  Hey, we found out what the box does!  I can tell the future now!"  

"That's great," Eliot said calmly, like this sort of thing was an everyday occurrence for him. 

 "Like, two seconds," Jubilee felt compelled to add.  "And it's temporary.  We think."  

Mr. Ford rubbed his forehead and looked up at the ceiling just like Scott did.  He sort of reminded her of Scott, actually, like if Scott had decided to become a criminal mastermind with weird hair.  "I think introductions may be in order," he said, in a voice that sounded only mildly strained.  

"Yeah, to figure out whose enemies are gonna find us first," Eliot muttered.

It took a while to get everyone sorted out, and she stopped listening for part of it when Hardison and Auggie were doing something particularly interesting to the servers, but Mr. Ford shepherded people into little groups so it was easy to see who was where.  Even if you hadn't exactly been paying attention the whole time. 

Auggie suddenly said, "Wait, you're Neal Caffrey?  I thought you had an FBI shadow now."  He was definitely better at multitasking than she was.

No one seemed too worried by the question, though, which seemed weird.  "What did I miss?" she whispered to Paige.  

"There's an FBI agent standing in the hallway," Paige whispered back.  "So he won't have to arrest anyone."  

That was awfully decent of him, she thought.  Also, maybe Auggie wasn't as good at multitasking as she'd thought, if all that had been explained and he'd missed it.  Paige seemed to realize that she hadn't been following the introductions, and started pointing at the various groups around the room.

"That's the FBI agent's wife; she came with Shawn and Detective Lassiter.  Neal Caffrey's the one next to them with the hair.  The unconscious guy is Michael, I think -- they haven't said what they're doing here, except maybe hiding?  Auggie's partner is Annie, she and Parker were the ones we hadn't met yet when we found Mr. Ford and the rest of them."  

It was fast, which was awesome, but Jubilee wasn't sure the explanation actually made sense.  "Thanks," she said anyway.  "I think.  Why are they hiding in the museum, again?"

"We're done," Hardison announced suddenly, sliding his chair back from the swarm of computers they'd set up.  "No need to thank us; all in a day's work, really."  There was quiet celebration from all sides, like even the people who had no idea what they'd been doing were pleased it had been finished successfully.  Then again, maybe people who performed criminal acts were used to not knowing the details of their colleagues' successes.

Everett made a noise next to her.  "Oh, that's not what I was expecting."  From his unfocused expression, she thought he was probably seeing the future again.  "Who knows a man named Fowler?"

Neal Caffrey looked up sharply from the conversation he was having with one of the unconscious guy's friends.  "Fowler?" he said.  "He's actually here?"

"He's about to be," Everett said, and out in the hallway they heard someone shout, "FBI!  Freeze!"  And then, "Oh, for crying out loud, put your hands down.  You look ridiculous."

The door opened, and two more people entered the room.  One of them looked embarrassed.  Since the other one was holding a gun and trying not to look too closely at anything, she figured he must be the FBI agent.  "It's fine, Peter, they're all finished," Elizabeth told him.

"Fowler," Neal Caffrey said flatly.

"Caffrey," Fowler said.  "Killing me won't help you, you know that, right?"

The FBI agent actually rolled his eyes.  "We're not going to kill you.  We just want information.  Who are you working for?  Did you know they were going to go after Elizabeth?"

Fowler paled.  "You have to understand," he said quickly.  "They told me they were going to kill me.  They just wanted Caffrey."

"I thought they were after the music box," Neal said.

"What would they want with a music box?" Fowler said.  "Even if it does have a coded message in it, what use is it going to be now?  It's been more than fifty years since it would have been recorded; nobody but historians cares what it says."

Jubilee thought the FBI agent had looked angry before, but it was nothing like his expression now.  "So all of this -- and Kate --"  He cut himself off.

"Was for Caffrey," Fowler said.  "Barrett wants the best.  You were standing in the way."

"Barrett's dead.  What are you doing here now?"

"You were looking for me.  I was looking for you.  You have to help me -- they'll kill me for failing.  I don't know who else to turn to."

Jubilee thought he had a lot of balls asking for help after what he'd just told them.  She waited to see what the FBI agent would say.  Neal was looking away, with Elizabeth's hand on his arm.  She squinted -- she was pretty sure he was mumbling something under his breath, but she couldn't tell what.  She nudged Paige, who might have a better angle. 

"It's safe schematics," Paige whispered after a second.  Jubilee stared at her.  "What?  I can't have skills?  Safes are classy."

The FBI agent had finally found his voice again.  "You want our help.  After everything you did."

"I had no choice!"

"Fine.  I'll help.  In fact, I have the perfect solution -- I know a place you can go that's safe.  None of Barrett's people will be able to get to you, and you can stay as long as you like."  He was smiling a little, and Fowler was starting to look nervous.  "In fact, I know it's safe, because Neal's tested it himself."

"Maximum security prison -- nice, Peter." 

"Hey, I can learn.  Don't knock it till you've tried it, right?"

 

SHAWN SPENCER

He could tell they were all feeling it -- it was like an itch, like a restlessness, a niggling sensation that there was no reason why all of them had somehow ended up in the same place at the same time.  And he was probably the least sensitive person in the room (despite his day job -- they were connected, but he didn't think anyone but Lassiter had ever figured out just how).  Everett was practically twitching.  Nathan kept reaching for his jacket pocket, where he either kept alcohol or whatever he was replacing it with at the moment, but so far he wasn't ready to drink in front of the kids.  

For Shawn, it was like watching a kaleidoscope.  Who moved closer, who moved apart -- who had what tells and who was just pretending to have tells to cover something else.  Eventually, he shook off the fascination.  It was still a room full of heavily armed, highly motivated mostly-criminals.  As far as he was concerned, it was time to get the kids back to whatever they'd been doing before they'd decided that making new friends was more important than their teachers' sanity.  (Which was possibly true.  It was a toss-up, really.)

"DC police!" someone shouted from outside the room.  "You're surrounded!  Come out with your hands up!"

He blinked.  Huh.  Well, that was unexpected.  Everyone was looking at Everett, who squirmed under the scrutiny.  "I didn't know!  It must have worn off!"

It was really sort of hilarious how it was Carlton and Peter -- the only ones who could, legitimately, use badge waving to get out of this situation -- looked more nervous than any of the room's occupants who actually had criminal records.  Maybe familiarity with being on the wrong side of the law increased your comfort with it.

The unspoken communication that passed in the room in the next ten seconds could have filled a phone book.  Fiona stood up abruptly.  "Caffrey, are you with me on this?"  

Neal winced, and looked at Peter.  "I can't," he said.

Sophie stood up gracefully.  "I've got it," she said.  "Who's on backup?"

Eliot moved to stand next to her without a word.  "You're doing the cultural artifact exchange?" Annie asked.  "I can help too."  

Nate's team had quietly separated to make it look like the room had only two groups in it.  Even the kids had gotten down from the desk they'd been perched on, standing unobtrusively behind Carlton.  

Sophie walked to the door and flung it open.  "What is the meaning of this?" she shouted angrily.  There were a lot of guns in the hallway.  All of them were pointed at Sophie, and she looked at them like they were cereal box toys (ones that weren't cool, obviously).  "Well?"  

Without giving the police a chance to say anything, Fiona said, "Is there a problem?  I thought everything was settled.  Any delay is unacceptable!"

Eliot loomed behind Sophie, and Shawn took a moment to congratulate himself on actually remembering everyone's name.  Sophie took an ID card from Eliot without looking at it and brandished it in the officers' faces.  "I hope you know what you've done," she said.  "Who's in charge here?  I'll need all your badge numbers.  This will be reported to your superiors."

"Ma'am," one of the officers said hesitantly.  His gun didn't waver, but his voice did.  

"You've interrupted a very serious negotiation for the return of a priceless piece of Irish heritage," Fiona said.  "The embassy will be hearing about this."

Annie stepped into the pause like she'd been doing it for years.  (Family -- it made liars out of everyone.)  "Please," she said.  "Everyone just calm down."  She turned to Fiona, then Sophie, then seemed to address the room at large, each time in a different language.  Shawn had no idea what she was saying, but if he had to guess, then based on Neal's expression it was commentary on the fall television lineup, or possibly dirty jokes.

The cops didn't buy it.  They waffled, momentarily, but it was an awfully hard sell.  Eighteen people in a basement office in a closed museum?  Even given that, they might have gotten away with it if the museum's security guards hadn't ID'd Parker as the one who'd knocked them out earlier in the day.  

Which is how they ended up being led (not handcuffed; there weren't enough to go around) to the closest security office.  The museum guards argued for a police station holding cell instead, but dispatch said the closest station with space available was thirty minutes away, and transportation was an issue.  

Waiting was an issue, as far as Shawn was concerned.  Boredom really should be considered a threat to national security.  "So who's getting us out?" he asked, as soon as there was a break in the parade of officers asking questions.

He turned to look at the Fed.  (Along with thirteen other people in the room, none of whom were wearing hats.)  As essentially the only one who hadn't shown a willingness to completely toss the rulebook out the window, it was up to him to dictate the next step.  Legal, mostly legal, or 'you should probably cover your eyes and hum really loud for a few minutes' (not legal at all).

"Neal?" Peter asked.  "You want to call Mozzie?"  

Parker produced a cell phone from somewhere and Annie looked like she was trying to decide if she should ask about it.

Neal took the phone but rolled his eyes at Peter's suggestion.  "He's not a magician, Peter," Neal said, pushing a string of buttons.  "He can't just wave his hand and fix everything."

"So who are you calling?"

Neal held the phone up to his ear.  He waved his other hand in what Gus would have called a 'wait for it' gesture, and it was Peter's turn to roll his eyes.  "Diana!" Neal said finally.  "What a pleasure to hear your voice!"  He paused.  "Well, we've actually run into a slight snag.  I was hoping you could help us out."

Neal was lucky his facial expressions were interesting, because verbally his side of the conversation left a lot to be desired.  It was all "really"s and "yes, of course"s and sure, it was probably a good idea not to blab about the super secret rescue plan in a place that was being monitored by closed circuit cameras, but still.  Boredom.  It was a silent gateway drug to crime.

"She's coming."  Neal finished with a flourish, and Parker disappeared the phone back wherever it had come from.  "It'll be about 45 minutes, depending on traffic.  And how long it takes them to finish burning the music box."

Peter's shocked exclamation was definitely a sign that the “music box” wasn't something he'd previously considered to be campfire fodder.   It had to be a code, he figured, even though 'music box' didn't have any good anagrams (which was a shame -- anagrams were like the Monday crossword of ciphers).  'Ox Cubism' was a good name, though, maybe for a band or something.  Neal just shrugged.  "Apparently it seemed like a good idea at the time."

The mysterious Diana apparently called ahead, because they were left alone after that.  They were ten minutes into a winner-take-all rock-paper-scissors ultimate elimination showdown when Sophie said suddenly, "Oh, I've just had the best idea."

 

FIONA GLENANNE

"Michael's gonna hate this idea."  Jesse said it carefully, like he knew he wasn't technically in a position to comment.  Michael himself was unconscious, though, and no one else was going to mention it.

She glared at him anyway.  "Well, I've hated nearly all of his ideas for the past three years."

"I'm with Fi on this one," Sam said.  "He'll get over it.  This is our best shot at getting his life back.  Plus, Maddie will love it."

It turned out there was a new show in the works -- a community facelift concept, to show how one person could influence an entire street, or neighborhood, or city.  It was already being planned, and they were going to make sure Michael Westen was the one person chosen, and introduce a whole lot of cameras into his life.  Fiona was already planning what she was going to have to move out of the loft (and his car, and Madeline's house) sooner rather than later.

One of the girls had drifted over to listen when Sophie started expounding on her plan to subvert the modern culture of televised realism to create their very own version of witness protection, Miami-style.  "You really know a producer at HGTV?"

"Of course not, darling.  But I know Maxine at the Home Shopping Network, and she knows someone who caters for Bravo, and he has a sister who knows a producer at HGTV.  Maxine and I met at an audition; she owes me a favor."

Fiona heard someone mutter, "Must be some favor," off to her left, but she couldn't tell who it was.

It was true, though.  They were going to upend Michael's life, he was going to hate it.  But she was so tired of him jumping to the call of whatever shadowy group was being the most threatening.  He was getting out no matter what, and even though she knew there was probably a better than 50% chance he'd be right back in it by choice the second he was able, at least it would be his choice.  And then she'd know.

Problem was, there weren't that many suave ways to make "getting out" actually happen.  Death was out, prison wasn't going to work, and pretty much all that was left was making his life so public that all the puppet masters slunk away to darker pastures.  

"Stop glowering," Sam whispered in her ear.  "You're making the half of the room that's paying attention to you very, very nervous."  She relaxed enough to nod, and he squeezed her shoulder.

"You know what, though?  It'll work."  Jesse sounded speculative.  She hoped he was planning to stick around.

“Yeah, it’ll work.”

They all turned at the sound of the door opening at the end of the hall.  “You’re free to go,” the guard said, and in what might have been the most unlikely occurrence of the entire day, not a single sarcastic jibe was uttered during the walk back to freedom.  

As soon as they were outside, Sam clapped his hands together.  “Well, that was fun.  What’s next?”  

The detective was looking cranky, and he frowned at the three kids.  “What are you even still doing here?  Jail is not an educational experience.”

“Bite your tongue, Lassi!  Prison -- particularly when surrounded by talented and creative people -- can be a fantastic growth experience!”  Spencer frowned at the kids.  “Although, yeah, I figured they’d pull you out of there a lot faster.”

One of the kids pointed at the sky.  “Private plane?” she said.  “It seemed like it might be helpful.”

“You know, like a thank you for the educational opportunities,” another one chimed in.

She looked up, but the sky was clear.  “It’s invisible,” the first kid said, and someone whistled.  She’d bet Caffrey.

It was confirmed a second later, when Burke said, “Neal...” in that ‘I’m warning you, don’t steal these nice people’s invisible plane’ voice.

She smiled, and felt lighter than she had in months.  “Well, what are we waiting for?”

 


End file.
